She runs and runs, never looking back, letting her feet decide the way for her. She is blinded by so many tears that she can't even see the road in front of her, and only the occasional screeching of car tyres or honking of a horn reminds her that the world still exists. She wants to keep running, wants to be somewhere where she can't see Willow or Giles or her mother or anyone and where no one will ever want to talk to her again. She isn't surprised when she suddenly finds herself on Crawford Street, the mansion looming darkly in the distance. She slows down, but she still has no control over her feet, and within seconds she is at the door, fingers on the handle.

The fight has gone out of her, and suddenly she doesn't feel anything anymore except tiredness. It is like someone has wrapped a leaden blanket around her that is weighing her to the ground, and she has to gather all her strength to even put the key in the lock. The door swings open, and the smell that hits her is part dust, part mould and part home. It is enough. She makes her way to the bedroom and curls up on the narrow bed, hugging her knees to her chest. It is still the bed that Angel slept in when he lived here alone. They had meant to get a new, bigger one, but they had always slept so completely entangled in each other that there just didn't seem to be a point. His scent is everywhere, and she buries her face in the pillow and sinks into merciful oblivion.

She doesn't wake up until noon, and doesn't get up when she does. She isn't hungry or thirsty, that sweet-smelling blanket is all the nutrition she needs. She hugs the pillow to her chest and inhales again and again. Her mother arrives in the early evening and tries to get her to talk, but Buffy turns her back to her and waits, and eventually she leaves, crying silently. When Giles and Willow show up a little later, it's the same scenario. Buffy stares at the wall while they wait for her to talk, but she doesn't, so they leave some food on her bedside locker and depart again, promising to be back the next day.

That night, Buffy doesn't sleep. She is exhausted beyond belief, but oblivion just won't come. She can no longer smell Angel, and a dull ache is spreading through her bones. It feels like it's been there for a while, but she hasn't really been paying attention to it, and she tosses and turns to find a position in which it is bearable, but there doesn't seem to be one. Her eyes are still wide open when dawn is creeping in through the windows, and she remembers how the blinds and heavy curtains where the first thing to go when Angel moved back in here after he was turned. He had said he wanted to be woken by the sun on his face every morning for the rest of his life, and Buffy had replied, in that case he'd better not try to off himself again because that would pretty much guarantee cloudy skies for the next few days, and they had laughed about that for a good five minutes before they remembered that it hadn't been funny at all at the time and maybe still wasn't. How ironic, she thinks, that he hadn't even managed to stay alive long enough to see another rainy day in Sunnydale.

That day, she doesn't get up either. When her mom and Giles come, she takes a few sips of the chicken broth they've brought her, but it tastes like mud in her mouth and her throat is still too tight to swallow anyway. Joyce tries to hug her daughter, but Buffy sits stiff like a rod and after a few moments, her mother lets go. Giles suggests they move her back to Revello Drive and she doesn't have the strength to argue, so he picks her up, blanket and all like an invalid, carries her to his car and drives her and her mom home. She still doesn't talk.

At the Summers' house, she is reinstalled in her old bedroom in no time. She lets everything happen and doesn't argue, but refuses to give up Angel's blanket and after a while, her mom stops trying to talk her out of it. A sort of routine is established during the next couple of days; Joyce fusses over her and brings her soup and fruit and takes most of it away again, untouched, after a few hours. Buffy hasn't showered in days, her hair is lank and greasy and she is still wearing the same clothes she put on for patrol that night, but she can't muster the energy to do something about it. She doesn't even have the strength to feel sad anymore; it is as if during all that screaming, something broke inside her and now her capacity for grief is all used up. She is so numb that sometimes she wonders whether she'll ever feel anything again, but most of the time she thinks absolutely nothing at all, staring at the wall opposite the fragile shelter of her bed.